


For What Reason

by nlogax



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26359720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlogax/pseuds/nlogax
Summary: He’s in trouble, he knows he is. He also knows why Brendon did it. He’s not stupid. Brendon’s stupid. They’re both kind of stupid, actually, for doing any of this. For what reason?
Relationships: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Kudos: 16





	For What Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2011 for a contest, during which I was prompted with the word "hickey". First Place.  
> Archiving here for whoever wants it. Did not re-edit, so please forgive me for any spelling/grammar/other cringe-inducing text.

“Brendon,” Ryan breathes, reaching backwards for a wall, a railing, something to help him balance his buckled knees. He won’t be able to stand for much longer, and his muscles are burning, and—and then Brendon is reaching for his scrambling hands, pulling him forward (impossibly closer) and holding him there with strong arms. He helps Ryan grab onto his shoulders, steady himself, and whispers things like, “Ok, ok,” against Ryan’s neck.

He’s trying not to let his guard down, to keep an eye out on their surroundings and make sure Spencer’s still shoe-shopping and Jon’s still fast asleep. If he’s too loud…if Jon wakes up…if Spencer doesn’t make any noise coming home or Ryan doesn’t keep a close enough eye…well.

“You’re so paranoid,” Brendon whispers, licking a path from Ryan’s left collarbone to the lobe of his ear. Ryan grits his teeth and Brendon laughs, “Nobody’s going to find out, God.”

“You’re ruining it,” Ryan whines, shoving his hips forward desperately.

Brendon rolls his eyes, bites softly on Ryan’s jawbone. “You’re ruining it,” he mumbles.

“Fuck, Brendon,” Ryan groans, annoyed. “Stop being so immature.”

“Immature?” Brendon asks, meeting the other’s lips, finally. He doesn’t understand how Ryan can sit there and criticize him at a time like this, but he knows how to shut him up. He also knows how to fight back. They pull apart. “Fine, whatever, I’ll stop.”

“Ok,” Ryan replies, pushing Brendon by his hips toward the back lounge. They can’t use the couch, since Spencer could come home any minute (Ryan is not paranoid, he’s just logical!) and they can’t use either of their bunks, since Jon is asleep and they could wake him up. Brendon’s never quiet.

“The lounge?” Brendon asks, pulling at the hem of Ryan’s t-shirt. He lifts his arms to help speed things along, watching Brendon casually toss the shirt across the room.

“Where else?” he argues. And then, “Do you really have to throw it as far away as possible?”

The answer is Yes, Brendon does. He doesn’t tell Ryan, and probably won’t ever, because he’s a little embarrassed, but yeah. The only reason they keep themselves secret is for Ryan. Ryan doesn’t want them to know. Ryan doesn’t want to be criticized. Ryan doesn’t want to be an outcast or a freak. Brendon respects that, knows and feels the same danger and posing accusations. But he’s not like Ryan. He doesn’t care about what people will think. He just wants them to know, wants everyone to know how much he cares for Ryan. How—how much he loves him.

So yes, he will keep throwing Ryan’s shirts. He will keep hiding his pants under the couch cushions while they kiss. He will keep holding his boxers hostage even when Spencer is turning the key in the lock. Hoping, praying, waiting for someone to catch on.

“Whoops,” he says. It’s all he says.

They fall onto one side of the wraparound pleather couch, Ryan then Brendon, and Brendon reaches for the button of Ryan’s pants. Reaching, reaching, always eager and reaching and so, so willing. This is usually the part where Brendon loses all ability to multi-task, his brain completely focused on RyanRyanRyan. Anything for Ryan, beautiful Ryan, saint Ryan. Not this time.

Ryan makes an unhappy, whining noise and Brendon meets his eye, forcefully pulled into another kiss. He bites Ryan’s lip, gently, reveling in the other boy’s deep, desperate groans. He moves to his neck, again. It’s probably his favorite spot that isn’t Ryan’s hipbones.

With mischievous eyes and a matching smirk, Brendon finds a spot he likes—a patch of brilliant white, smooth, beautifully pale skin just above the collarbone—and bites down, hard.

“Ouch! Fuck, what—what the hell, Brendon!? You’re gonna leave a—mmm, I hate you!” Brendon laughs, relenting and licking the reasonably sized wound. Ryan’s tone suggests otherwise, but Brendon knows better than to point it out. Ryan’s usually not stubborn enough to follow through with his threats of leaving right in the middle, aroused or not, and Brendon doesn’t want him to leave. Brendon needs him and wants him and loves him. But it has happened before, so he knows his limits.

“It’s ok, ok? You, it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful,” Brendon assures him. Ryan grumbles as Brendon admires his work. Brendon isn’t sorry. “So beautiful,” he whispers.

~

“Fucking hell,” Ryan says. He sounds distraught and agitated, and Brendon knows this cannot end well for him. He scrambles in his bunk for his IPod and reaches for the curtain, but Ryan pulls it back at the same moment.

He looks livid.

“Motherfucker,” he says, grabbing Brendon’s collar and leaning close. He points to his neck, where Brendon notices a large, very angry purple and red bruise. “See this?”

“I see it,” Brendon smiles.

“You cheeky bastard,” Ryan growls. “What were you thinking!? How am I supposed to hide this from Spencer? From Jon? From the interviewers, the fans? Zack?”

“I guess you’re not,” Brendon shrugs.

Ryan releases Brendon’s collar, and Brendon releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He watches Ryan’s reaction. The clenching and unclenching of fingers. The realization.

Ryan walks away.

~

“Ryan,” Spencer says. “It’s 95 degrees outside. Why are you wearing a scarf?”

Ryan shrugs, fiddling with the tassels of the offending garment. His eyes are unreadable through the sunglasses on his face, and he says, “It looks nice. I like it.”

Brendon cracks a smile because he knows better, knows that it’s not the scarf itself as much as the dark purple bruise underneath it. Spencer says, “It looks dumb, dude. You’re gonna overheat.”

“I dunno, Spence. I’m siding with Ryan on this one. It does look nice,” Brendon interrupts before Ryan can come up with something. Spencer rolls his eyes and walks faster towards the venue.

“Whatever, suit yourself. Don’t expect me to share my water bottles!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“You’re an ass,” Ryan spits, once Spencer is far enough away.

Brendon smiles wider, moving closer to Ryan as they walk. He gives the other a quick, sideways hug and replies, “No, really. You’re beautiful.”

~

Ryan stands in front of the mirror, shirtless, wondering how it can be so easy. Brendon just walks around, saying and doing whatever he pleases. Brendon doesn’t ever worry (with the exception of his family life, because, well) and he doesn’t ever care what people think about him. There’s a huge, ugly mark on Ryan’s neck and nobody has seen. He’s done a perfect job of covering it up. He lived through the show, sweating until his shirt soaked through, until the scarf stuck limp and dripping to his skin.

He did it. He still feels dirty and selfish and secretive and marked.

He’s in trouble, he knows he is. He also knows why Brendon did it. He’s not stupid. Brendon’s stupid. They’re both kind of stupid, actually, for doing any of this. For what reason? Brendon wants to be reckless, for people to find out about them and judge them. Ryan is afraid of them. But not for the reasons Brendon thinks.

Ryan loves him. Loves him a lot. He doesn’t want people to know because he knows that people will make them or break them. People will pick them apart and people won’t leave them alone. Jon and Spencer, what if they don’t approve? What if they lost all their fans, for being proud or for not being proud? People will find them and people will hurt them and Ryan is afraid to be torn apart. He’s afraid to be torn from Brendon.

But Brendon isn’t afraid. He doesn’t care.

Ryan doesn’t want to think about it. He puts his shirt back on, along with a matching scarf, and heads back out into the lounge, where Pete and Patrick are telling stories and serving hard drinks.

~

Brendon’s back hits the wall, hard, and he nearly screams out in pain. Thankfully, Ryan pays enough attention to notice, and uses his mouth to swallow the sounds. “Shh,” he says when he pulls away (just barely). “They’re drunk but…shh!”

Brendon giggles—giggles like mad and Ryan wonders briefly what Pete put in those drinks. The thought passes quickly enough, since he had four or six or eight cups and it doesn’t matter. Brendon is here, writhing under his touch, and Pete’s a douchebag anyway.

“Pete’s not a douchebag!” Brendon laughs. Ryan didn’t realize he was thinking out loud. He doesn’t think about it. Brendon lunges forward, pulling Ryan’s hair very roughly and smiling wickedly. “You’re a douchebag!”

“Shhhhhhhhhhh! Jesus!” Ryan scolds. Brendon just laughs.

“I love douchebags, I love them a lot,” Brendon says, licking Ryan’s cheek and swallowing his lips. He tries to talk while he’s kissing, but it doesn’t work, and it’s so funny and he can’t stop laughing.

“You love Pete?” Ryan asks, looking genuinely puzzled as he pauses for air.

“Pete!” Brendon says loudly. Ryan grabs a fistful of Brendon’s stomach and it tickles, and Brendon just cannot stop laughing it’s so funny. “No, I love you.”

Ryan looks suddenly serious, but not at all coherent. “I love you.”

“We’re in love!” Brendon shouts happily. Then, “Oh! Sorry, whoops,” for being loud. He looks right in Ryan’s eyes, and he’s swimming. He’s so gone. They’re so gone. He loves Ryan so, so much.

Brendon sinks down to his knees, becoming face-to-stomach with Ryan. He tugs up the other’s shirt, placing his hands on the warm, smooth skin as Ryan takes it all the way off. Ryan fists his hands in Brendon’s hair, and Brendon says, “So beautiful.”

He touches his mouth to the skin, biting softly and then harder, as Ryan makes appreciative noises from above him. He kisses and nurses and moves on to the next spot, kissing, biting, tearing at Ryan’s stomach. The skin is so perfect. He’s perfect. They’re perfect.

Everything is perfect.

~

“No fucking way.”

Brendon splutters awake, rubbing his eyes and yawning and falling onto something hard all at the same time. It’s the floor. The floor of…of a closet? Where is he? He opens his eyes and adjusts to the odd lighting coming in from under the door. Ryan is there. He looks not happy.

“Wha?” Brendon murmurs.

“What? You’re asking what?” Ryan whisper-yells.

Brendon looks confused. He is. “Yes?”

“You think you’re so fucking funny, Brendon Urie,” Ryan says angrily. He pulls up the hem of his wrinkled shirt, revealing a number of rounded bruises. A few are shaped exactly like Brendon’s mouth. He knows from experience.

“Whoops,” Brendon whispers.

“Whoops!” Ryan repeats. “Whoops, looks like you put our relationship in danger! Whoops, I guess you’ll just have to wear turtlenecks for the next week while we tour around the fucking desert! Oh jeez! My bad!”

“How exactly did I put our relationship in danger, Ryan?” Brendon asks, becoming a little angry himself. He has a really horrible headache, and he’s really not even in the mood to argue, but. Ryan is getting worked up over nothing. “Besides, I don’t remember you protesting!”

Ryan stands up, nearly bumping his head on the closet ceiling and then the wall. Brendon supposes he probably has a pretty bad headache, too. He stumbles for a second before regaining his balance, and then says, “I’m going out first.”

Brendon wants to protest but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have the energy and he doesn’t have the fight so he just doesn’t. “Okay,” he says.

Ryan leaves the closet and Brendon waits five, ten, twenty minutes before he follows. He goes to the kitchenette where there are fresh doughnuts and coffees and one has his name on it. Lots of foam, lots of chocolate, just like he likes it. Ryan is dressed and sitting on the couch beside Spencer in a turtleneck, both of them with coffee and doughnuts. Brendon doesn’t join them. He takes his breakfast and his coffee and goes to eat in the quiet darkness of his bunk.

~

Ryan has a heatstroke onstage.

They rush him to the hospital, of course, and Spencer won’t stop hyperventilating and cursing himself and pretending it’s all his fault when really it’s Brendon’s, and also Ryan’s fault. Brendon wants to tell him to shut up, to stop blaming himself, to stop being so dramatic. Instead he gives him a water bottle and sits in Jon’s lap. He doesn’t say anything, but nobody has room to be worried about Brendon when all they can do is hope that Ryan doesn’t die because of a dumb sweater.

He doesn’t, which is good and awesome and glorious and Brendon praises the God that for once seems to be doing something good for him. They’re not allowed to see him right away, but he’s conscious by midnight and they bring him water and balloons and this ridiculous mug that says ‘I survived’ because Jon is very, very stupid about these things and doesn’t know how to not get souvenirs even if the gift shop is in a hospital.

They cut off the sweater and Ryan’s in a weird cornflower blue hospital gown. Brendon notices that the cornflower of the gown and the white of everything else make the marks on Ryan’s neck look that much bigger, that much purpler. They stand out greatly against the contrasting pale color of his skin, but—but Brendon is the only one who notices.

“You dick, you scared the shit out of me. Never, ever do that again! Next time I tell you you’re scarves and your sweaters are stupid, maybe you should put your big dumb ego aside for a second and consider the option that maybe I am right, because I promise you I am. Always,” Spencer is ranting. Ryan looks very bored and very tired, and Brendon is waiting for Spencer and Jon to want to leave so that he can talk to Ryan alone. Because Spencer and Jon…they don’t notice.

They stay for a while and they chat about nonsensical things until visiting hours are coming to an end, and the nurse offers to escort them all out. Spencer and Jon say goodbye and Brendon asks for one more moment, says, “I’ll catch up, just a minute.”

Standing by Ryan’s bed, they just sort of stare at each other for the first few minutes. Ryan says, “I didn’t die for you,” and Brendon says, “But almost.”

“They didn’t notice,” he continues. “They didn’t notice the hickies. You were so paranoid and you were so worried but they didn’t even notice. Spencer Smith was looking, checking you for wounds, he didn’t notice you had hickies.”

“He didn’t,” Ryan says. Brendon shakes his head.

“We should tell them,” Brendon says.

“Visiting hours are over, Brendon.”

~

The next hotel night, things are surprisingly calm behind Ryan and Brendon’s unlocked door. Ryan reads Oscar Wilde and doesn’t look up at Brendon whenever he walks by, purposefully. They haven’t spoken since visiting hours ended ad Ryan was released from the hospital. Everyone has been pretty sour since they had to cancel a show waiting for Ryan to get better, which Pete says could be bad for the fan base. Spencer had a long talk with him about how Ryan was fragile now and Pete didn’t need to be worrying him or stressing him, and Pete got pretty snarky and said “it’s always been that way!” and Spencer was pissed, so now they haven’t talked to Pete, either. Nobody is talking, it seems, and Brendon thinks it’s time for that to change.

“Ryan,” Brendon said, stepping up to the foot of Ryan’s bed.

Ryan looks up from his book and frowns, not bothering to save his page. Like he thinks this won’t take long. Well it will. “What,” he says dryly.

“Why don’t you want people to know about us?”

“Why do you?” he shoots back venomously. Brendon sighs, rolling his eyes. He sits down on the bed and Ryan folds his page, realizing that this will take longer than he expected.

“You really wanna know?”

“I really wanna know, Brendon.”

“Because I’m tired of being single and I’m tired of watching you be single. I’m tired of scoping out dark corners and lockable doors and I’m tired of not being able to hold your hand in public or kiss you after a show. I’m tired of fans asking me out and I’m tired of sneaking around behind the backs of our friends. I want to share small spaces with you and cuddle with you and give you everything you need because I love you. I want to stop being so careful. It’s wearing me out,” he confesses, subconsciously grabbing Ryan’s ankle and twisting his fingers around it.

Ryan looks a little shocked, and Brendon understands, because it’s a lot to take in. But he’s ready for whatever Ryan’s response will be. “I don’t care” or “I don’t love you.”

“I love you too,” Ryan says quietly. So quietly that Brendon barely hears it.

“You what?”

“But I don’t want us to fall apart,” Ryan continues, just as quietly.

Brendon watches his expression because—because he just can’t believe what he’s hearing—and he frowns, sad because Ryan is so afraid. He crawls up the bed until he’s right beside Ryan, half on top of him, really, and he sets Ryan’s book aside. “We won’t fall apart.”

“You don’t know that,” Ryan protests.

“I do know that, because you love me. We love each other and we will not fall apart, and I’m sorry that I gave you a hickey. And I’m sorry that you almost died. And I promise that it will never ever happen ever again.” Brendon says sternly.

Ryan laughs a sweet laugh, and Brendon thinks it’s beautiful and he says, “You’re an idiot.”

“But I can hold your hand in public.”

Ryan nods.

~

“Uhm, Ryan,” Jon says, sounding a little amused. “You have a Brendon on your neck.”

Ryan doesn’t look away from Jeopardy, mumbling something like, “Yep.”

Jon pauses for a moment, and then breaks into a wild grin. Brendon returns that grin and presses it into Ryan’s shoulder.

“Spencer! Spencer James Smith! It finally happened!” Jon shouts, directed at the hallway leading to the back lounge. Ryan hushes Jon and uses the remote to turn up the television’s volume.

Spencer comes rushing out of the lounge. “The apocalypse or—” then he stops, seeing Brendon presses kisses into Ryan’s shoulder. “OH!” he exclaims. “EVEN BETTER!”

Ryan groans very loudly and pauses the TV. “What are you guys talking about?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing. Just how Jon owes me about fifteen dollars.”

“Damn, you couldn’t have held out a little longer, Bren?” he says to no one, fishing into his back jeans pocket for whatever. Ryan and Brendon exchange confused looks.

“We made a bet,” Jon says.

“And I won!” Spencer proclaims victoriously, taking Jon’s money as it’s handed to him.

“You made a bet….that Ryan and I would get together?” Brendon asks, clueless.

“I said you’d be openly together in three months, and Jon said you’d never do it,” Spencer explains, counting the bills and slipping them into his pocket. “We made the bet last month, when I was rudely woken up by your crazy gross sex noises, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Brendon says happily. Ryan blushes and falls against—against his boyfriend’s shoulder, tired and happy and just this side of perfect.


End file.
